


wishing for rain

by metafictionally



Category: Topp Dogg (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metafictionally/pseuds/metafictionally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know why this had to happen now, of all times—why it couldn't have happened in summer, when the comforting sunshine might have made all this heartbreak a little easier to bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wishing for rain

**Author's Note:**

> for hanjoo expert Sabrina

Byungjoo gives up on a Thursday.

He gets as far as a soft murmur of Hansol's name in the doorway of the library, one hand instinctively reached out to touch Hansol's elbow—once a gesture as familiar to Byungjoo as a habit. Stilted, now, the gesture aborted, hand falling to his side as Hansol turns to look at him.

It isn't anger in Hansol's expression, which is almost the worst part. Anger, Byungjoo could handle. Anger, Byungjoo could meet with the rising tide of frustration inside him, born from weeks of silence, one-word text messages and cancelled plans. But there's no anger, just a carefully-sculpted blankness that somehow stings even more than sharp words might, because at least sharp words would mean that Hansol still cared.

"Hansol," Byungjoo repeats, although he isn't sure what he wants to say next.

Hansol pauses, his shoulder pressed against the door, cracked just enough that the heat of the library leaks out into the cold winter air. Byungjoo shivers, and wishes he'd worn a scarf. As though it's cold that makes him shake.

"Yeah?" Hansol says. He sounds casual. It cuts, deep.

There are a thousand things that Byungjoo wants to say. What comes out is, "Nothing," his eyes dropping to the cement at Hansol's feet. Hiding his face, which has always been as easy for Hansol to read as a large-print book. "Nevermind."

Nevermind. Hansol pauses, then pushes the door open and disappears into the warmth of the library, leaving Byungjoo standing outside on the steps, hands freezing and lips numb. It's December. He doesn't know why this had to happen now, of all times—why it couldn't have happened in summer, when the comforting sunshine might have made all this heartbreak a little easier to bear.

Byungjoo bites his thumbnail and counts to thirty, giving Hansol plenty of time to lose himself in the stacks before Byungjoo follows him inside. Bites his thumbnail and remembers the way that Hansol had dragged the pads of his fingers along Byungjoo's lower lip, looking at him with the kind of intent reserved for things you want very much, things you crave so desperately it feels like a hunger. How badly Byungjoo had wanted to be wanted, how Hansol was very beautiful and Byungjoo had pulled him close and licked obscenities into his mouth.

Things he shouldn't be thinking about.

Inside the library, tables are filled with students, noses buried in books in preparation for their upcoming finals. Byungjoo has them too, tests in his political science class and his sociology class and his literature class, and he's poised to fail all of them, his mind filled with every damn thing except course material and his focus everywhere but on school. He wishes he wasn't like this, wishes that he could sweep the pieces of his heart under a rug, at least for the time being—out of sight, out of mind, until at least the winter holidays start and he can escape back home. 

Last month, he and Hansol, sitting on the couch in Byungjoo's dorm room, had discussed the possibility of visiting over the holidays. They lived hours away from each other, but Hansol had been positive that his dad would let him drive to visit as long as he was there for all the major holidays, Christmas and New Year's included—"His side of the family is coming to town," Hansol had said, rolling his eyes, "but I'm only required to make an appearance at major family dinners, so I figure I could spend a few days with you if it's okay with your mom."

Naturally, it had been—Byungjoo's mom liked Hansol almost as much as Byungjoo did—and so the plans had been settled. Byungjoo suspects that, whether they agree to it or not, those plans will go unfulfilled, now.

Fuck Byungjoo for his recklessness. 

Fuck him for those three or four extra shots, for giving in to Dongsung's teasing. Fuck him for the fuck-me eyes that got Hansol into that bathroom, and for the fingers that undid his buttons, for the tongue that had tasted more of Hansol that night than Byungjoo could ever hope to forget. Fuck him for all of it and more, for falling for Hansol to begin with. 

God, it had been good—sloppy and drunk, the both of them, but better for it, no finesse and all enthusiasm, hands everywhere, licking into each others' mouths like they wanted to drown in it. Byungjoo's pants around his thighs and Hansol's dragged wide open, boxers down his hips so Byungjoo could get his hands inside. Hansol had cursed Sangdo seven ways from Sunday for not keeping lube in his bathroom, and he'd coated his fingers in hand lotion instead, slipped his hands down behind Byungjoo to finger him slow and easy while Byungjoo jerked him off and whispered filthy promises into the skin just below the curve of his jawline, the kind of things he would never say, sober.

Even the thought of it now makes Byungjoo flush, leaning his head briefly against the section of the stacks dedicated to modern West African history. Polisci. He should study, but he can't forget the phantom of Hansol's hands at his waist, the way he'd touched Byungjoo like he was something to be treasured.

Even after Byungjoo came, Hansol had cleaned him up, wrapped the tissues neatly and hidden them in the bottom of the wastebasket just in case. Their pants done up again, and Hansol's arms went around Byungjoo's waist, his breathing a soft rush against Byungjoo's throat. The steady beat of his heart in his throat, and the sudden taste of Byungjoo's desperate fear that this hadn't been a drunken mistake.

Turns out that it had. 

Hansol hadn't called him the next day, or the next, until Byungjoo—nervous to death, stomach acid in the back of his throat—had finally given in called him, instead. "Hello?" Hansol said, and he'd sounded breathless and distracted, half-laughing. "Byungjoo? Sorry, can I call you back?"

Casual. Nonchalant, like nothing had changed. 

"Sure," Byungjoo said. "I'm gonna be in the library for a while, but I'll try to pick up."

"Cool," Hansol said, "see ya," and hung up. He didn't call back.

In some ways, Byungjoo had hoped that nothing _would_ have changed. For all that it felt like his world had shifted under his feet, it was better to maintain the status quo than for their friendship to be fractured beyond repair. It had happened before, to people Byungjoo had known, relationships damaged so badly that they couldn't be in a room alone together anymore. Hansol meant more to him than that.

So he'd tried hard. Tried not to let it bother him, that Hansol slowly stopped returning his texts. That Hansol didn't laugh at his jokes, as often, that Hansol didn't call him and only answered half the time when Byungjoo tried. Nothing had changed, he thought, but the desperate attempts to convince himself fell flat even to his own ears.

Things had changed, and not for the better.

Fuck Byungjoo for having a best friend he'd fallen in love with, too. Add that to the list.

He pulls a book off the shelf at random, trying to force himself into some kind of focus. Child Fostering in West Africa. Not useful. Not even close, not even in the same number range as the book Byungjoo needs. Nice try.

"Focus," he mumbles to himself, and moves down the aisle.

It's one of those days, though, where Byungjoo is so tense, so tightly-wound and so frustrated that picking up the wrong book feels like a crushing sense of shame, and that when the book he _does_ need isn't there on the shelf, Byungjoo has to put his forehead against the cool metal and force back the urge to cry. It's not the book, really. It's that his finals start on Tuesday of the next week, and he doesn't have the book he needs. It's that he hasn't been able to focus enough to finish his analysis of religious motifs in _The Bridge of San Luis Rey_. It's that Hansol's number is muscle memory enough that Byungjoo keeps catching himself halfway through keying it in, and has to remind himself to put his phone away before he makes a fool of himself. 

He takes a deep breath and is preparing to straighten up, square his shoulders and struggle through the geopolitics of West African tribal nations when he feels a weight on his shoulder from behind.

"I'm sorry," Hansol says quietly, his voice slightly muffled by Byungjoo's sweater. He has his forehead on Byungjoo's shoulder, one hand resting at his waist. Out of habit, maybe, the same way Byungjoo had become used to touches pressed against Hansol's wrist, his forearm, the back of his elbow. "Fuck, Byungjoo. I don't know what to do about this."

Byungjoo's insides are ice, adrenaline running like liquid nitrogen, but he nods a little as though he understands—then shakes his head and says, "About what?"

Now it's him who's trying to sound casual, but he knows it's transparent—he always has been, to Hansol, even when he'd wanted desperately to be inscrutable. Maybe that had been Byungjoo's problem. His eyes always gave away too much.

"About you," Hansol says. "About—us."

Eyes closed tight, Byungjoo takes a shaky, unsatisfying breath. "You don't have to do anything about it," he says. His fingers tighten on the bookshelf. The world is tilting a little, and the last thing Byungjoo wants right now is to faint. "We don't have to do anything about it, Hansol, I just—" Heat at the back of his throat and behind his eyes. Byungjoo stops talking and swallows hard, shoulders trembling. "I just don't want to lose you," he says, so softly it's almost a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, just—please don't… don't be like this. Don't be so cold."

For a long moment, Hansol is quiet, his breathing a little uneven. Then he straightens up and, using his hand at Byungjoo's waist as leverage, spins Byungjoo around so they're face to face. Hansol looks tired, his eyebrows drawn, the circles under his eyes dark as bruises. "You're sorry?" he says, the line between his brows becoming more pronounced as he studies Byungjoo's face. "How on earth could you possibly think this is your fault?"

It's so far from what Byungjoo expects that he has to pause, blinking, lips parted with the question that he wants to ask—which is, "How couldn't it be?"

"I'm the one who kissed you," Hansol says. "I'm the one who—" Who had pinned Byungjoo back against the counter and rolled their hips together, so Byungjoo could feel how hard he was. "I'm the one who wanted you too badly," he revises, his voice low. "I didn't want to see you hate me, so I pulled away."

Byungjoo can't help it—he laughs, although it's mostly shock. Hansol thinking that his desire for Byungjoo was something Byungjoo would _hate_ , ah, that's a good one. "You're an idiot," he says, giving in to the desire to straighten Hansol's scarf. The gesture is familiar, sets his shot nerves a little to rest. "I was on you like a cat in heat, and you say you're the one who wanted me too badly? Did you not see me looking at you? You kissed me first, but I got on my knees first, didn't I?"

His voice is quiet, but Hansol still turns bright pink, glancing up and down the aisle. "As if there's going to be anyone else looking for books on geopolitics in West Africa right now," Byungjoo says, shaking his head. "Why are you so stupid? You're a soc major, but you have no idea how people work, do you?" He straightens the collar of Hansol's coat and leaves his hands there, curled in the lapels, still a little chilly from the outside air. "Idiot. I don't know why I like you."

"I'm going to kiss you so you stop insulting me," Hansol says.

Byungjoo laughs. "Only for now," he says, but he lets Hansol kiss him anyway.


End file.
